badsleepwell

Know answers no answers. The thing to remember is that there are no answers waiting for you in death. If you havent figured it out by your untimely demise, theres no explanation waiting, no last minute surprise. No call from the governor, no last minute pardon, just plucked like the rabbit steals cabbage from the garden. I say this as pabst the screen flickers last nightshe stumbles in from somewhere and she looks ready to fight. Even as a ghost I feel scairt and confused, as our relations alwis were when she came home with booze. Half empty bottle of sipping whiskey, but she hasnt been obeying the suggested serving size. She swigs like a giant python swallows its prize, a slow, sinister gorging. She waves off dinner with a sweep of the arm, dishes clatter and spill. My parents gave us thoseshe pulls up her skirt with one hand in reply. Checkerboard tablecloth twists up around her knees as she kneels on taco shell shards and margarita slush puddles, sneering over her shoulder: you wouldnt if you could. Goading me, knowing which strings to pluck to haphazardly twang my favourit song. I turnip the volume; blood-rush in my ears.

Our intimacy reveals her latent disappointment; doubt, anger, and regret paint her unusual behavior. It ceases to be a mutual act. The best part isnt losing yourself down the path of their eyes. She rakes my skin wither nails, stutters nasty names between shudders. She curls up wither back to me when we finish. Breathes quiet. Sleeping quickly, before I can unstick my throat. No questions, no questions. She wouldnt give me any answers anyhow. I know that much by now.